You Do Count
by 243differenttypesoftobaccoash
Summary: Molly Hooper tries to help. She does. But everything she touches seems to turn into a disaster - for somebody, at least. This is my first ever piece so reviews or anything would be nice :) I'm planning on making this about 5 chapters long, updated daily or every other day.
1. Molly

_You do count._

**It was a surprise when Sherlock told her that she counted. Because, really, she'd always just been little, sweet-natured Molly Hooper, and Sherlock's pass into the morgue. That was it. But now she was beginning to wonder if she counted in the right way. She had helped, you see. Molly Hooper was clever, and she had helped deceive – **

_**Not deceive, not lie to, protect, Molly, we've been over this.**_

**Yes. Of course. There was no deception. Just being cruel to be kind.**

**Sherlock kept in touch, but rigorously cleared his digital trail, for fear that John would find it, and the illusion would be broken. But he didn't keep in touch for her. He kept in touch for himself, just to know that his stunt had not been discovered and that John and Mrs Hudson were eating and sleeping. He had asked about Molly herself twice, once to say, 'I hope you're doing a good enough job covering this up,' and again to say, 'Do you feel proud? You should.' He had hung up before she had time to answer.**

**She would have said she was proud. Of course she would. If Sherlock told you to be proud of something, it was something worth being damn pleased with. But Molly wasn't proud. She wasn't proud that she'd almost single-handedly broken a good man's heart for the sake of a great man's reputation. **

**She wasn't proud of the fact that, every time she saw John (which wasn't often, he hardly ever visited Barts now, not without Sherlock), his eyes were rimmed with red and his face was blotchy and he always tried to hide it. It was as if he thought feeling something made him weaker. And every time, Molly came just a little bit closer to telling, because she couldn't bear to see John so broken over a lie. She hadn't even tried to comfort him. She couldn't. Molly knew she'd have to say something, anything, to stop John from believing it. Anything to help the soldier who seemed to be too scarred to fight any more battles.**

**Molly was working. But work didn't stop any more. Every bit of her life was a lie she had to work to keep alive. And it made Molly thoroughly unhappy, and there were times she wondered why she allowed this to start. But she thought of the way Sherlock used to look at John, and she remembered the utmost importance it was to him that John be safe. She felt a little bitter about it, actually, recalling the years that she herself had loved Sherlock beyond his tactlessness and rudeness and downright cruelty, on occasion. She had liked him and put up with all his comments and remarks and observations that nobody else would stand for. And he never noticed her kind smile and eyes and words, not once. Then John came bounding in, and Sherlock would never look at anybody else again. Right from the start, it was John, which was unfair. He had never even given Molly a chance**_._

All of this rushed through Molly's head as she worked. Paperwork flooded the surface of her desk, and she felt like she hadn't moved in days. Her coffee – stone cold – was black, two sugars, how Sherlock liked it. She always made it that way. She knew John would never have his coffee any other way, not now. It didn't matter to _her_, she knew what was happening, but it felt wrong to drink anything but when she knew how close John held it to his heart.

'Molly?'  
She jumped, and the coffee went everywhere. The files on the two new bodies got the worst dousing, but her address book was pretty sodden and the paperback she'd been planning to read at lunch was wet around the corners.  
'Oh, bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger!' She crouched to retrieve the mug – only slightly chipped – and saw a cane next to a pair of loafers. She stood up straight again and smiled in a 'putting-on-a-brave-face' way.  
'John.'  
'I'm sorry. Do you need a hand?'  
'No, no, don't worry about it.'  
'No, no, it's fine. Do you want me to – move these?'  
'John, I said, I'm _fine_.' The last word came out a little sharply, far harsher than she'd intended to sound. She couldn't talk to him. She _couldn't_, not when he was trying so hard to be brave.  
'Oh. Well. I'm sorry.' He stepped slightly back and let her clean up. She took her time, avoiding his face with her eyes, desperate not to make eye contact. She was worried what she might see.

When she'd dragged it out for as long as possible, she stood up and exhaled.  
'Sorry about that.'  
'No, no, it's fine. I've got all day, haven't I?'  
It was a light enough sentence but Molly could tell what he was thinking behind it.  
_No cases to solve. No Sherlock to talk to. Only tea and telly and Mrs Hudson, at least for the waking hours. She didn't want to think about what happened when he had to sleep.  
_'I mean about being…short. I'm just…I'm stressed and I'm –'  
'Well, we're all a bit rocky at the moment, aren't we?' John gave her a tight smile.  
'John, I know this is hard for –'  
'You know this is hard for me, and you're terribly sorry for my loss. I know. I'm sorry for yours too, Molly, you knew him longer than I did.'  
She nodded silently. After a short pause, Molly said conversationally, 'I see you're back on your cane?'  
'Well, nobody seems that bothered about getting me off it.' John smiles by way of a sad, pained grimace.  
_Because only Sherlock saw through it and_ _cared enough to get him to stop using it, only Sherlock noticed and now there was nobody to notice and nobody to care for John, not like Sherlock did._

'Anyway, I expect you have work, um, you have some work to do?' John asked a little awkwardly.  
'Well, just a bit of paperwork here and there.'  
'Ah.'  
'Why are you here, John?'  
She says it kindly enough but her words have an edge in their very meaning.  
_It is pointless him being here without him_.  
'Oh, well, you know, just –' He breaks off and puts a fisted hand to his face. 'I should go.' His voice is much higher than usual, and he sounds just as she had dreaded – sad and knocked down. She doubted he'd have enough motivation – maybe not ever – to get up again. And though he had offered, and although it probably was the best thing for both of them, Molly didn't want to let him leave. She sighed, angry at herself.

'John, you know that's not what I meant. Come on, sit down, I'll take lunch early. Do you want any coffee?'  
'Black, please. Two sugars.'  
Molly bit her lip, then smiled bravely again. 'No problem. I'll be back in just a moment.'  
And she left John hastily, leaving him to wallow in his own thoughts.


	2. John

_John? John! You are amazing, you are fantastic!_

**Things rarely surprised John Watson. Sherlock complimenting him was one. Another was John's thought that he might drown from the amount of tears he'd had to choke back that month.**

**Seeing Sherlock fall – having to watch him jump – was hard. Of course, outwardly, that's all it would ever be. Difficult. A struggle, but he's managing. No, he's fine. Really.**

**But when he knew people couldn't see – when he **_**thought**_** people couldn't see, but of course, everybody saw everything now, because they were always looking – it wasn't difficult any more. It was **_**hell**_**, and at every turn and every new face and every empty sympathy that passed people's lips, he could see the devil who had forced this life of loss upon him. He could see James Moriarty, the man who got bored, and the man who paid for his boredom with lives.**

**Only once did he pay with what was his.**

**And the thought made John angry, because the most important person in his life – the most tactless, thoughtless, smart-mouthed, anger-inducing person John Watson had ever had the misfortune to meet – was exactly the same as Jim Moriarty. Sherlock – God, it was painful to even think of his name – would do anything to stop being bored. Often when it meant risking his life. Once, when it came down to giving it.**

**But, thinking about it, Sherlock wasn't exactly the same. He'd never let John die. Only himself, but for John, that was just as bad. It was like letting half of John die, because John had no point without Sherlock. He wasn't Dr John Watson, Sherlock's friend and link to reality and fellow adventurer (although of course Sherlock would hate being defined as an 'adventurer'). He was just John, a sad, aging man who knew the names of everybody on **_**Loose Women**_** and religiously watched Jeremy Kyle with his landlady, because, well, he was sad and aging and he had little else to do. Not since Sherlock.**

**John was beginning to miss the people that Sherlock had dragged, along with himself, into John's life. Lestrade hadn't been in touch for three months, and Mycroft hadn't bothered getting in touch at all. John was even beginning to miss people he thought he despised. Donovan and Anderson hadn't seen him since the jump. He missed hearing Sherlock pick them to pieces, and he missed hearing them insulting him back, because he could get involved and he could **_**help**_**. He could actually do something, as opposed to rest his shoulder and his leg and his mind, at home, in the quiet, where his only friends were the skull and Mrs Hudson. Even the skull had lost its appeal now, because it had been his.**

**And being at home, quiet, with Mrs Hudson was nice, because it was quiet and calm and really just what John needed after the upset of the past six months. But it wasn't what John wanted. John wanted excitement and murders and his blog and being interesting and he just wanted Sherlock, because without him he couldn't have any of the other things. But really, John knew that getting Sherlock was more important. Getting Sherlock back was the more important than **_**any**_** of that, and it was the one thing he couldn't do.**

Molly returned, pushing backwards through the doors holding two mugs of steaming liquid, interrupting John's altogether awful train of thought.  
'So, John, why did you come in? Stopping by to see Mike?' Molly inquired, taking a seat and blowing on her coffee to cool it before taking a sip.  
'Well, actually, I was hoping to talk to you.'  
Molly looked startled. She and John had never had that strong a relationship when Sherlock was alive, now he was dead, John could tell she saw no reason for their frail and fledgling friendship to continue. 'Me? Oh, John, you should probably drink that, it gets cold quite quickly,' she added, nodding in the direction of his mug.  
'Yes, OK…Well, you see, Molly…' John begun, but then he stopped, and sighed. 'Molly, I can't go on like this. I can't have only depended on Sherlock to live. Because right now, I'm not living.'  
'You're…you're not living?' Molly asked cautiously. 'What does that mean, John? Because you know Sherlock would never, _ever_ want you to do that because of him, not _ever_ – '  
John had expected this. He tried to make his meaning clearer. 'No, Molly, I'm not going to do anything like that, don't worry. I'm just…without…Sherlock –' He paused for a moment, to swallow down the barrage of sadness that had been building in his throat. 'I'm sorry. Without Sherlock,' he continued, louder and more confidently, 'I've not been living, merely _existing_. And I can't do that anymore, Molly.'  
'Right,' Molly replied, still looking befuddled. 'And you want me to…?'  
'I want you to help me. You knew what Sherlock did – well, _I_ knew what Sherlock did, but only from my perspective. I want you to tell me what Sherlock did, and – '  
'For what, John?' Molly suddenly slammed down her mug on her desk. 'For you to relive him? For you to see him again? What will that _do_, John? What will that do, besides make you sadder and lonelier and even more broken than you already are?!'  
John was startled to hear Molly raise her voice to a shout and leap up out of her chair, towering over him. He could see her begin to register what she'd done as well, and she slowly took her seat again.

'Sorry,' she whispered.  
It was a change, yes, but a good one, like when Molly started wearing lipstick and Sherlock had noticed and commented meanly when she'd taken it off and that comment was probably the first thing John had ever heard him say but he moved in with him nonetheless and that proved something…didn't it? Maybe it didn't.  
'Sorry, John.'  
'It's, um…'  
'I am right, though,' she continues quietly, ploughing through John's sentence like he'd never even started it. 'All you'd do is hurt yourself more, and I can't let you do that. He told me not to let you do that.'  
'He?'  
Molly froze. She looked terrified. 'Well, er, Mike, he, well, he said he hadn't heard from you in ages and that, you know, after all the horrible, horrible business that I should, you know, keep an eye on you. Maybe two –' Molly babbled.  
'Molly, what's going on?' John asked carefully.  
Molly regained her composure and smiled kindly at him. 'Nothing, John. Just a bit stressed about work and everything,' she replied equally carefully, pulling a forced face and laughing a false laugh.  
'Molly,' John repeated, sounding a little less controlled, and feeling a little more alive, too.

_She said him there's only one him only one him for John and only for Molly as well is it him oh God please let it be him.  
_'Molly, I know there's something up.'  
Molly smiled again and shook her head.  
'Molly, you've never even spoken to Mike. You met him once when he came to introduce me to –' He broke off again momentarily, but quickly regained his momentum. 'Don't lie to me, Molly. Please. We both know there's only one 'him' when it comes to me.'  
She shook her head again.  
'And for you, Molly. There's only one 'him' for you, too,' John said softly. Molly turned her head towards him.  
'Why didn't you cry more at the funeral, Molly?' It was an evenly spoken request, but an unusual one, and a personal one at that.  
'I – I cried –' Molly stammered.  
'You cried the amount I cried when I watched _Marley and Me_. Not the amount you should have cried when the man you'd fancied the knickers off –'  
'I did _not!_' Molly protested, going bright red.  
'Yeah, OK…You didn't cry as much as I thought. Nowhere near as much as I thought, nowhere near as much as I did.'  
Molly sighed forcedly again. 'I know you want him to be alive, John. Believe me, we all do.'  
_You have no idea, Molly, I don't want him to come back, Molly, I _need_ him to come back._

Externally, John smiled tightly. 'Well, thank you for having me, Molly. I really must get off now.'  
Molly looked startled. 'But you only just got here, John.'  
'Well, I'm not going to get what I came for any time soon, am I?'  
'John, it'll just make things worse. You have to let go of him,' Molly replied gently.  
John bowed his head slightly. 'Always nice seeing you, Molly,' he said, departing with a friendly nod. Molly was still looking at him, worried.

It was only after he'd left the lab that he realised he'd been crying.


	3. Sherlock

_I was so alone and I owe you so much. Please, there's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead._

**John had looked sad. Sherlock didn't usually care about feelings – after all, caring was not an advantage. It brought people closer to him, and he didn't need that, didn't **_**want**_** that, because his own little bubble of solitude protected him. But seeing a person who was usually so calm and collected and solid – seeing John looking like his calm and collected and solid world was crumbling around him, was, well, upsetting. **

**Sherlock didn't like to admit this, of course. He was Sherlock Holmes, intelligent, witty, stubborn, intuitive, the one who the police ran to because they couldn't function without him. This was all because he was able to remove himself from the situation. He wasn't really a person when he was looking at the bodies. He was an analytical machine, with a mind at least twice as sharp as any other on this earth. Sherlock Holmes didn't like to admit that he did feel things. Feeling upset because John was upset was ridiculous, but it was an occurrence, nonetheless. **

**Molly Hooper had been right. Sherlock always felt sad, and always looked it, now, where John could not see him – and never would. Alone was good, wasn't it? Alone was what **_**protected**_** him. Not according to John. John had said that it was friends who protected people. He was wrong, of course, but the thought was pleasant. The thought that somebody might put their life on the line to protect you, out of stupidity and care. Maybe alone was a bit not good, but Sherlock liked it that way. Alone, where he was never reminded of the kind face that had made him feel so terrifyingly and vulnerably human.**

'Sherlock?'  
Sherlock whipped around to face the door. He never got visitors – of course he didn't, for all intents and purposes he was dead – and he wasn't particularly happy to see his current one, Molly Hooper, peering round the door.  
'What are you doing here?'  
'Oh, well,' Molly blushed slightly. She was embarrassed to have disturbed him, Sherlock could tell. 'Well, I saw John earlier –'  
'Boring,' Sherlock said tightly.  
'It's not boring, Sherlock, I know you don't think it's boring.'  
'Well, you're wrong. Hardly an uncommon occurrence,' he remarked callously. She should know it was unacceptable to bring John up, to visit him simply to discuss him. It hurt, and Sherlock didn't know why. He disliked not knowing intensely. He turned back to the laptop that was sitting in front of him and continued to peruse the requests on his new website.  
'Sherlock, I know this is –'  
'Shut up, Molly.'  
'Sherlock, listen to me.' Molly was beginning to lose her temper. Sherlock could see it from the way she was stood, over him, trying to intimidate him, but it wouldn't work. 'Sherlock, _listen!_'  
Sherlock sighed. He disliked making people angry, not because of what he felt when they were insulting him, but because of the tedium of the whole affair. Anger and arguments and hate weren't worth the bother – they got in the way. 'What? Be quick about it, I'm onto something.'

Molly frowned. 'Onto something? What kind of something?'  
'A case in Bangladesh…lots of people have been on my new website but it's all rubbish really, Bluebell the rabbit all over again, but that turned out rather important in the end…'  
'You're working on cases? Sherlock, you're meant to be dead!' Molly hissed angrily.  
'Oh, you're afraid all your hard work in covering me will come undone, aren't you?' Sherlock said.  
'Sherlock, you have no idea. You have no idea how hard this is and how _painful_ it is to see John –'  
'Boring!' Sherlock interrupted again loudly. 'Molly, I'm not stupid. You should know that already, of course. I'm not using my real name, and even if I were they'd have no idea. I'm only really famous in Britain.'  
Sherlock noticed Molly's relieved sigh.  
'Anyway, Sherlock, I know you don't like talking about him –'  
'It's not that I don't like it, it's that I find it _boring_,' Sherlock interjected. He could hear how sulky and childish and frankly unconvincing he sounded. He wondered if Molly could pick it up.  
'Don't be childish.' Apparently she could. 'I know how you fe-'  
Sherlock interrupted her again – well, her sentences were too painful to let her finish. 'You don't know anything.'  
'I know some things.'  
'Well, practically nothing.'  
'Sherlock, I'm trying to help you!' Molly sounded close to tears. 'For God's sake, every day of my life for the last six months I've had to work so hard to cover your tracks. I've had to get Lestrade to leave me alone, even though I could really use Anderson's help –'  
'See there, that right there, is why you don't know anything, anybody who needs Anderson's help must be stupid. Stupider than usual, that is.'  
'Sherlock, I am trying. I had to face John today, Sherlock.'  
'Molly, shut up,' Sherlock said warningly. He could feel his heart beating faster.  
'He's worse than you said he'd be, Sherlock. Much worse.'  
'He'll get over it.' Sherlock didn't mean that.  
'You didn't see him, Sherlock!' Molly shouted.  
'Go ahead. Enlighten me.'  
'He was…he was all…he was coming to _me_ for companionship. I spoke to the man once, maybe twice. _We weren't friends._ He wanted me to tell him what you 'did' from my perspective, and I told him I wouldn't.'

Sherlock was surprised. 'Really? I thought you relished opportunities to gush over me.'  
Molly flushed again. 'Sherlock, he was completely broken. He won't fix himself.'  
'Fine. Send him a new friend. Get Mycroft to pay somebody.'  
'He won't have new friends, Sherlock. You must know this. You should be watching him.'  
'Well, I'm not. Like I said…' Sherlock paused for a moment, thinking about what he was going to say and the dishonesty of it. 'Boring.'  
Molly sat back. 'You really don't care your best friend isn't –'  
'I don't have friends, Molly.'  
'You had him. You said he was your friend.'  
Sherlock was quiet again. 'I –'  
'Just admit that you're upset about this too, Sherlock. It's OK to feel sad.'  
'No, it's not OK!' Sherlock roared. 'It's not OK, Molly! I can't give in now, I can't –'  
_I can't give in now because then all _my_ hard work will be for nothing if you think this is easy for me Molly if you think I'm just sitting here and twiddling my thumbs you're wrong and you should know you are  
_'Sherlock, this is –'  
'Molly, I can't stop now, you don't understand, I can't –'  
'Right. Because nobody can ever understand the incredible Sherlock Holmes,' Molly says bitterly, beginning to gather her bag and leave.  
_Molly is wrong, unbelievably wrong, undeniably wrong, but the truth is embarrassing, the truth is something I don't want to admit because oh she doesn't understand she wouldn't understand_  
'You wouldn't understand,' Sherlock said indistinctly.  
Molly turned sharply. 'Of course I wouldn't –'

'I love him.' The words were mumbled and scrambled and slurred. Sherlock sounded drunk and dizzy and off his head, and was well aware of it.  
_I love John_  
'You, er…' Molly looked uncomfortable, blushing again. 'You're gay?'  
'I wouldn't know,' said Sherlock vaguely.  
'You wouldn't…what?'  
'It doesn't matter. I said you wouldn't understand and you don't. It's fine. Go ahead, you had some storming out to do.'  
'You…you love him?' Molly sat down again.  
_Oh dear, was she going to talk?_  
'I…I don't…I don't know,' Sherlock eventually blurted.  
'What makes you think you do?' Molly asked quickly.  
'The fact that I can't think about him without wanting to cry like a three-year-old, the fact that I miss the smell of his shampoo and the fact that I care about nothing more than keeping him safe.'  
'Oh.'  
'Hm. Strange.'  
'What?'  
'Your indifference.'  
'Well, everybody thought it really. Nobody wanted to say, in case it wasn't true.' Molly smiled sadly at Sherlock. 'Well, I'd better be off. I have work tomorrow.'  
'Molly, before you go…'  
'Yes?'  
'What did you come here to tell me?'  
Molly faltered visibly, Sherlock could see it. 'Oh. Well, nothing, really, just that I'd seen John and he's…he's coping OK and –'  
'You said earlier he looked broken,' Sherlock pointed out.  
'Well, he did. But doesn't everyone in his…situation?'  
'Not after six months,' Sherlock muttered. 'Molly, please make sure he's alright. I don't want him to be upset.'  
Sherlock began to walk into another room.  
'Well, how do you want me to do that?' Molly called after him.  
'I said, call Mycroft, he'll fix it!'

Molly left. Sherlock Holmes was alone again, and it felt more than just a bit not good.


	4. Molly II

_Gay._

_I thought it was an improvement; your mouth's too…small now._

**Sherlock Holmes was an arse and an idiot. Molly Hooper could count the number of times he'd complimented her or been pleasant to her or managed to keep his analytical mind out of her business on one hand. Of course, that was what she did, wasn't it? Counted. Even that seemed like an insult now, like he knew how much he meant to her and didn't care about that either, it went unnoticed and disregarded. **

**And his nerve was irritating too. He assumed Molly would do anything and everything for him, but of course she would, because she was Molly and she was sweet and, really, she fancied the knickers off him. She always had, with his cheekbones and trench coat and his mysterious manner. Molly had wanted to be the one to bring him down a couple of pegs, but even though she got there first she wasn't allowed to cross the finish line. John Watson, who got there after her, way after her, was allowed through, seemingly without a second thought.**

**And now Sherlock was saying he loved him. Molly wanted to laugh. Sherlock Holmes, love somebody or something other than himself? It was a joke, and a pathetic and sick one at that. That Sherlock Holmes should find it in his heart – he didn't have one, though, a**** hollow muscular organ that pumps the blood through the circulatory system by rhythmic contraction and dilation, yes, but not a **_**heart**_**, at least not one Molly knew of – that Sherlock would find some capacity in his hard drive to care for another human being was ludicrous, and the fact that Molly was the first he should tell was twisted.**

**Molly felt both bitter and delighted at the same time. She didn't care. She knew where she was going and what she was doing and at the same time she didn't. The idea was stupid. But she was doing it anyway.**

She knocked on the polished door of 221B Baker Street. A tired-looking John answered. He looked worse than when she'd seen him the other day, and he was wearing Sherlock's dressing gown. He didn't look like he'd slept or eaten. Molly wanted to change that, and she was planning to.

'Molly, it's really early, I didn't get any sleep last night –'  
'He's alive.'

Molly had to admit she expected a different reaction to having the door slammed in her face. She knocked on it again, hard.  
'John, please, come out and talk to me, this is important!'  
She could hear him, sitting, back rested against the other side of the door, sobbing. 'For God's sake, Molly, don't _do_ this,' she could hear him groaning. 'Please, Molly, if you're trying to make me feel better, _stop_. I can hardly deal with him d-dying once…' He dissolved into tears again.  
'John, I'm not lying, I promise! Please, John, this has been eating me up for the past six months and I went to see him and he – well, it's obvious he _cares_ about you, John!'  
'No! Stop it! He's dead, Molly, he's dead!'  
'You're only saying this because you don't know how to feel now you know he's alive,' Molly said softly.

She could hear faint sniffling. 'Go away, Molly.'

She sighed. She didn't know what to do.  
'John, _please_,' she begged, nearly in tears herself. 'John, I can't do this by myself anymore.'  
'I've been doing this by myself for six months, Molly!' John screamed the last three words. 'I've done this by myself and there's no going back now.'  
'There _is_, John, you just have to –'  
'I've worked _so hard_ to let go, Molly,' John said, so quietly she could hardly hear him. 'I can't just go back to square one.'  
'Do you want me to read you the texts he sent?' Molly asked quietly. When she got no reply, she defiantly whipped out her phone. 'Is John OK? –SH. Is John eating? –SH. Check up on John – SH. Delete these texts –SH. And the first one –' Molly smiled slightly as she read through the very first text Sherlock had sent her after his death. But John opened the door, tears collecting on his jawline, and she paused.  
'Go on,' John pressed. 'Tell me what the first one was.'  
'Let John keep the scarf/coat. I'd want his jumper – SH.'  
John looked at the floor. 'So, he's back?'  
'No, he's always been here,' Molly said briskly. 'Can I come in, please?'

Soon, they were sat in the living room of 221B Baker Street. John had adopted Sherlock's usual chair, and remarked, 'I guess I'll have to give it up, now, won't I? Shame; I like this chair.'  
'Why didn't you sit in it when he was around, then?' Molly teased.  
'Because I didn't need to,' John replied calmly.  
_He didn't need to because Sherlock was always there, the sound and the sight and the smell and the feel and just the _essence_ of Sherlock, now John didn't have that and the chair was all he had to drown himself in his memories._  
Molly was becoming quite good at this deducing business. She could tell what people were thinking more often, read their body language more acutely. She could tell what was on their mind.  
'Right,' she said uncomfortably.  
'Did I do something wrong, Molly?' John blurted, his eyes on his slippers.  
'Wrong?' Molly replied in confusion.  
_He thinks Sherlock is hiding from _him_, but he is hardly worth hiding from, he's just John, Just John, the one person in the world who Sherlock wants to hide from least of all…_  
'He didn't involve me for a reason, Molly.' John sounds calm, but he isn't, of course he isn't, he's just found out his best friend in the world is alive, and that's both disruptive and delightful, emotions which collide with each other at best, and explode on contact at worst. 'He didn't involve me…why?' He looked expectantly at her. John wanted an answer that, honestly, Molly wasn't altogether clear on.

'He…he wanted you to be…safe, I think.'  
'Safe? From who? Moriarty's dead and gone, isn't he?'  
'But…I don't think he _was_.'  
'How do you mean?'  
'Well, I wasn't there, I don't know everything, but from what Sherlock has told me –' _  
Frustratingly little pieces and many of them over the course of the past half-year, that she'd had to piece together herself_.  
'–Moriarty had gunmen – _his_ men – ready to shoot three people, Sherlock's only friends – Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and you – if they didn't see him jump.'  
'What about you?' John interrupted, before Molly had quite finished her sentence.  
'What do you mean?'  
'You're Sherlock's friend.'  
Molly smiled wanly, knowing how untrue this was. 'I'm his stepping stone, John. That's different.'  
John looked at her then, a little bit funny. 'Is something wrong? Did Sherlock say something? Because you know what he's like, Molly, you can't take any of it to heart, he's trying to be clever –'  
'He says a lot of things, John, and mostly I don't care anymore.' Molly could hear the tightness in her words.  
'You always cared before,' John pointed out.  
'I cared about _him_ before. I don't anymore.'

'Why not?'  
John sounded angry.  
'Because he doesn't care about me. He never has. It's a waste of effort.'  
'Sherlock doesn't care about anybody! He cares about his flipping hard drive, doesn't he? That's it. But he needs people to care for him.'  
'He cares about you.'  
'Because he'd be _lost without his blogger_,' John says, putting on a pretentious and pompous voice as though to mimic Sherlock in his last few words.  
'He'd be lost without his John,' Molly says firmly. 'Now, you weren't meant to know. Seriously. It is bad that you know and I've done a horrific misdeed coming here, but I'll come back for you after the weekend, and we can go and see him.' Molly smiled encouragingly and John took her down to the door. She was walking away from Baker Street, about to hail a cab, when –

'Does he care about me, Molly?'  
She turned back to John, in his dirty pyjamas and his ratty old slippers and Sherlock's dressing gown that hung ridiculously long on him. He was stood there, hopeful and eager. He didn't know Sherlock loved him. He might never know.  
'He values you, John. That's the best you're ever going to get.'  
It was a lie, and a slightly cruel one, but it was better than interfering by telling the truth.


	5. Sherlock-and-John

_You'll never be the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light, you're unbeatable!_

**Never sure. John was never sure with Sherlock; He doubted he ever would be. This was the biggest blow yet – Sherlock had let him suffer for this long and this painfully without intervening? How could he simultaneously care so much for John – which, according to Molly, he did – yet let him be in agony, back on his stick, rarely leaving the flat, having days that ranged from downright dreadful to only a bit not good. They never got above that, never got above just being a little bit appalling, because John was now in a state – well, he had been in a state of permanent, boring stupor.**

**At the same time, John wanted to cry. **_**Sherlock was here. Sherlock was OK. He could see Sherlock and talk to Sherlock and **_**be**_** with Sherlock again.**_** Two days since Molly had left – two days that seemed the longest he'd ever lived through. Because now he had something to get through those days for, he had an opportunity to see his best friend in the world again.**

**And, on top of that, John was worried. Would Sherlock want to see him? He'd been hiding for a reason. Molly said it was to keep John safe, but Sherlock didn't care about safe, Sherlock cared about **_**interesting**_**. John was worried that he'd find Sherlock and lose him all over again, because Sherlock would be angry that John was suddenly here and the secret was broken. Maybe he was concerned about safety, but then John wouldn't know. John never knew, and in a funny way that was good. It made things interesting, not knowing.**

John examined himself rather closely in the mirror. He felt _nervous_. He almost laughed. He was nervous of seeing Sherlock, the man who he'd lived with and worked with and spent inordinate amounts of time with; Nervous of seeing the person who knew him better than anyone. It was ridiculous. But it somehow made sense. His hands were trembling as he altered his tie.

_Tie?! John, what are you thinking, you never wear ties, not _normally_ anyway_.

John didn't want Sherlock thinking he'd tried, because he'd naturally deduce some rubbish from it and an argument would break out. John didn't want an argument, he wanted his first time seeing Sherlock again to be brilliant and good and _normal_. But then, normal with Sherlock usually had an argument or two in their somewhere –

_Oh, he didn't know, he didn't care anymore, he just wanted Molly to hurry up and _get here_, she was already five minutes late, he just wanted to see him, couldn't she get here quicker?_

He paced and took off his tie and smoothed a hand nervously over his chin. _God_, this was terrifying. Every time he heard a car outside the flat his stomach seemed to want to jump out his mouth. He waited for another ten minutes that were so long and so tedious until Molly finally turned up.  
'Sorry I'm so late, John,' she came tripping up the stairs to 221B after being let in by Mrs Hudson. 'I couldn't find my keys _anywhere.' _She looked up at him and smiled brightly. It was false, of course, but the gesture was pleasant enough. 'Excited?'  
'Petrified,' John muttered, leading the way out of the flat and to the taxi Molly had waiting.

They didn't speak a word for the entire 20 minute journey. Only 20 minutes. How ridiculous that Sherlock had chosen to hide in London…but then, the best place to hide, as Sherlock had said on the taxi driver case, was in plain sight.

Pulling up outside the building, John felt a slight lurch in his stomach. It was a brick building, bleak and abandoned and desolate. How dramatic.  
'The door's just around the side, I'll take you up and then I'll let you be…alone.' Molly hesitated. John gave her a sideways look. 'Um…OK?'  
'Fantastic!' she beamed. 'Right, come on, then.'

Seven doors and three flights of stairs later they were outside. John's heart was pounding unbelievably hard.

_Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.  
_Molly rapped hard on the door, a twelve-beat rhythm that was clearly some kind of code she had with Sherlock.  
'Busy.' A familiar voice came from within.  
'Not too busy for this,' Molly said hopefully.  
'Busy,' Sherlock repeated.  
'Sherlock Holmes, open this door _right now_.' John almost stepped back in shock. He'd never heard Molly take that tone of voice before, especially not with Sherlock.  
'Busy!' Sherlock was shouting now, loudly, angrily.  
'You're not too bloody busy for this, you arse! COME TO THE BLOODY DOOR OR I'M KICKING IT DOWN!' Molly bellowed.  
_Bloody hell, Molly had a set of rather terrifying lungs on her._

The door remained closed for a little while longer. Molly begun to shout. 'Sherlock! Sherlock Holmes you open this –'  
'What part of _busy_ don't you understand, Molly?' The door was ripped open by an irritable Sherlock. Then his eyes drifted over to John's face. He paled considerably and slammed the door again.  
'Nice bloody greeting,' John muttered.  
'Oh, for Christ's sake!' Molly opened the door that Sherlock had apparently forgotten to lock second time round and stormed in. John chose not to follow her, listening from the doorway. 'Sherlock, stop being an arsehole, and come and talk to John. I've tried so hard to bloody get him here, and if you've decided that you're in l-'  
'Shut up, Molly!' Sherlock hissed. 'He will hear you. The walls are thin and the doors are open, and –'  
John could hear Sherlock pacing, his shoes thudding against the floor. 'How could you put him in danger, Molly?' he said sharply. 'After all my work to make sure John–' There was a thud, and John was almost certain Sherlock was punching the wall. '–Hamish –'Thud '–Watson –' Thud '– was safe. I'd _pay_ to keep him safe, Molly, I care –' Sherlock's voice broke. John was surprised to hear some actual _feeling_ in his voice, a degree of sadness. '–so much about him. _So_ much. And now he might –'  
_He cares he cares he cares_  
'What? Who exactly is going to hurt him?' Molly replied softly. 'Moriarty's gone, Sherlock.'  
'His men aren't,' Sherlock said grimly.  
'You want to see him, don't you? Talk to him? _Tell_ him–'  
'Molly, I am _not_ going to tell him. He's my _assistant_. I'm not going to risk my career for my–'  
_Oh God, what did this mean, what did Sherlock want to tell him, or not want to, but what Sherlock _had_ to tell him_  
'Sherlock. If you–'  
'It's not worth it, Molly.'  
'All we have to do is make sure nobody finds out. That's it. That's all. We've done a good enough job so far, haven't we?'  
'Will he?'

Molly paused. John leaned in closer, desperate to fill in the details of this irritatingly fractured conversation.  
'Do you trust him?' Molly asked finally, after a long pause.  
'I am in _love_ with him, Molly.'  
Sherlock's voice was so quiet John could barely hear it.

_Sherlock loves John  
He loves me  
I  
Well I don't know  
Do I?  
He's a prat  
But you  
I do  
I don't  
I love him  
Do I?_

There was another pregnant pause. John could see Sherlock in his head, licking his lips uncomfortably, whilst Molly bit hard at a hangnail, thinking carefully about what to say next.  
'I know you are.'  
John couldn't bear this. He couldn't bear Sherlock being strange and upset about this, he couldn't bear being left out of this, and he couldn't bear knowing Sherlock loved him. He didn't know Sherlock had the capacity to love, and now he did it was a little unnerving. His legs began to stride into the room without him really directing them, and he saw how Sherlock had been living.

Sofa. Chair. Crate. Laptop. That was it.  
'Oh, John, hi, sorry, Sher – I'll just go,' Molly squeaked hastily. She scurried out, slamming the door and leaving John and Sherlock by themselves.  
_I am in love with him. _  
'Jesus Christ, Sherlock, you bloody scared me,' John confessed awkwardly.  
'I'm sorry. It was necessary.'  
'I know.'  
'I had to keep you safe.'  
'Mrs Hudson and Greg too, I know, Molly–'  
'You more than anyone, John,' Sherlock interrupted. John could feel a slight blush rising on his cheeks – _why?_ They were best friends. Why was this embarrassing?  
Sherlock clearly noticed the flush rising up John's cheeks. 'I'm presuming you heard my conversation with Miss Hooper.'  
'What, the one where you said you loved me?' John nodded. 'Yeah.'

'I'm sorry.'  
'Excuse you?'  
'Sorry,' Sherlock said simply. 'I don't mean to put any pressure on you. I just…necessities.' He waved away the rest of the sentence with a casual flick of his hand.  
'Right. So you…'  
'Am in love. With you.'  
'Ah.'  
'Not reciprocated, then?' Sherlock smirked, but behind the sarcasm was a clear chunk of disappointment.  
_Don't be sad, Sherlock, I don't want you to be sad, I care about you, I bloody l–  
Oh my God, it is._

John answered by bumping his lips against Sherlock's._  
_It was strange. They seemed to be entwined, perfectly joined, _together._

Sherlock-and-John.


End file.
